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Front page of the Ironforge Herald Gun Tycoon Sells Company to Alliance Military Alan Greenspanner This morning at approximately 10:35 Stormwind Standard Time, firearms manufacturer and long-time Alliance patriot Byron M. Langley handed over the keys to his Ironforge and Elwynn plants to senior military officials and a representative of king Bronzebeard for an exceptionally large sum of money. Mr. Langley confided to the press that this was a move "I'd only dreamt of between cigar breaks, as the start of a long awaited retirement" When asked about his feelings at handing over the reigns to a veritable monopoly on armament technology, Mr. Langley gave us all a good laugh and suggested that "at least now the brass can lock and load their own gun, without a gnomish middleman." Mr. Langley plans to enter true retirement later this week, starting with mechano-back world tour. When asked about reknowned socialite and wife June Langley's opinions on the trip, Mr. Langley could only respond "Gentlemen I assure you, the vacation is the first tug of her chain. And let me say that for once I am thrilled to have someone else lead me around." Shareholders have been informed that they will retain stock in the company, which will remain a somewhat privitized branch of the Ironforge Production Commonwealth, and economists are confident that stocks will continue to steadily rise as the push into the Outland continues. A Journey Ahead of Him With a final, unecessary nod, Byron M. Langley read the last lines of his exit-article, crumpled the days-old paper, and readjusted his ancient, tarnished goggles. He gave his packs a final once-over: revolver, rifle, dried rations, canteens one through five, ammunition, explosives, photographs, clothes, boots, tent and mess kit. He checked the oil of his Mechanostrider, made sure the hydraulics were in order, the headlights functional, and the joints free of foliage. When all was settled and accounted for, he pulled his final cigar from his jacket pocket, and let it rest unlit on his lip. He thought back on the deception of the last several months. The layering of lies, little white fibs regarding June's location, the necessary steps to cover her disappearance. He recalled the flurry of activity to prepare for his departure. He considered the irreplaceable hours with his daughter, watching her fingers and toes and legs and arms grow, the moments which he'd have to convey to June as best he could, which he quietly, secretly was thrilled to have witnessed. Now was the final moment for regret, the final hour for fondness, and softer emotion and the guiles of memory. Byron thought of Viola, hellraising through childhood in the house of his distant cousin through his mother, Gearbert Leadcogg. He gave a final thought to her endowment, the private fortune which she would have access to, and the second fortune for his cousin and relations as payment for her care, and hopefully a fee for some affection. He thought of the glistening adamantium axe, forged from the relics of Uldaman, which even now was on its way as thanks to Mordaine Orthos, Thane of Clan Orthos, the dwarf of immaculate stone. He thought of Shame, the note which would reach her in due time, and his warnings to her, his fatherly, proud love for her. He thought of the departing bonus he gave to his employees, the properties bestowed to Lars, his stony, reliable foreman. And Byron thought of June, most of all. He thought of the downy softness of her skin, the cosmic, voracious intensity of her eyes, the smell of her hair in the dark hours of the night, the searching of her tiny, iron-gripped hand reaching for his calloused fingers. He thought of the dancing particles of fel which would surround her when she was angry, and the sunset glow of red she would almost emit when pleased, the haze of affection which his aging, fond mind had wrapped her in. There was a day when Byron M. Langley would have died with horror, were he able to see himself. Throwing away a life's work for lust, or love, or the darker persuit of fel, which soaked June's trail into a blasted and murky unknown. He was past that now, too old to change back, joyfully cuckholded. Now Byron smiled, and with a carefree puff of fel, eradicated the article crumpled in his hand from the face of Azeroth. With a green-glowing tip of his finger, the cigar was lit, and pleasant, sweet dwarven tobacco drifted through the desert. Byron gave a final nod to Gadgetzan, to civilization, to life and love and honor and regularity and society and reality, and turned his mechanostrider toward the dunes. Byron M. Langley would have quite a tale to tell June, when he found her. And he would find her. Of that, he had no doubts.